


Afterimage

by Miso



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Ghosts, M/M, Spoilers, dutch has gone completely cuckoo for cocoa puffs at this point, in a way ig?, like lots of spoilers. major spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-28 00:07:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16712665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miso/pseuds/Miso
Summary: Dutch was always the kind of person to talk to himself.





	Afterimage

**Author's Note:**

> yall........... sad dutch is my lifeblood. big ol spoilers of course but at this point anyone whos read my fics knows hoseas a goner. :c

Dutch had always been the kind of person who mumbled under his breath when he was doing things. Half the reason Arthur moved his lips when he read was because Dutch did, and it wasn't entirely uncommon to see him muttering quietly while scheming. Nobody pointed it out after the first couple of times they saw it, mostly because Dutch claimed it helped him think, and the only thing that stopped him from making long-winded speeches was thinking.

But it was hard not to say anything when he started playing chess with himself, and when he talked in his sleep, and when his voice cracked in a way it never had before. Not like he was on the verge of tears- at this point, the entire gang had seen Dutch crying, it was no secret how badly the losses of Sean, Kieran, Lenny, and Hosea (god, especially Hosea) had shaken him- but like he was barely restraining something and it took physical effort to keep his facade of confident leadership up.

Of everyone, Arthur had the hardest time watching Dutch's mental health deteriorate. He had expected all of the death and bloodshed to affect him, but not so deeply, and he berated himself for being so foolish. Dutch's external veneer of control had always disguised an insecure man; so insecure, that Arthur recalled a younger Dutch leaning on Hosea's shoulder one drunken night and asking if he trusted him, if he thought he was an idiot, if he loved him. Hosea had given him "Yes, no, yes, go to bed" as an answer.

Hosea. God, even thinking of him still hurt. Hosea was a father to Arthur, just as much if not more than Dutch was. He'd singlehandedly taught Arthur how to fish and hunt. One of Arthur's fondest memories was Hosea trying to teach him how to pickpocket and being caught trying to snatch the money clip Dutch had in his pocket. Hosea had simply shrugged and said "Better luck next time. Good thing it's Dutch and not a cop," before walking off to fish.

If Arthur was grieving him so deeply that even looking at his fishing pole hurt, he could only imagine what Dutch was going through. On nights that he couldn't sleep, Arthur would sometimes sit by the scout fire, just to have some form of light and company, even if it was his grousing campmates and dim embers. He'd check in on Dutch sometimes on the way to the scout fire. He was usually asleep- Dutch had been sleeping a lot since Hosea's death, Arthur noticed- curled up into a tight ball on his side and gripping something in his hand. He only noticed it was one of Hosea's old handkerchiefs one night when Dutch had evidently forgotten to turn his lantern off, and the light reflected off the dull satin. Suddenly, Arthur understood why Dutch had suddenly taken to sleeping with one hand by his head.

He tried not to check on him too much after that.

\---

The chill nipped at Arthur from his tent, where he'd been idly doodling in his journal. Autumn was starting to set in, and the weather had taken a notably cold, damp turn. It was harder to sleep in the cold, and yet Arthur's visits to the scout fire were growing rarer. Tough to brave biting cold and wind when you could barely breathe.

Glancing up from his book, Arthur took a look toward Dutch's tent. The canvas flaps were open and the structure was empty.

The sight set Arthur on edge immediately, and a nagging feeling of dread settled over him. Dutch had been unstable for far too long, and no one had dared ask him if he was okay. _What if...?_

Arthur was headed for Brandy, his bay Mustang mare, before he fully registered that Dutch was even gone. A quick glance around the feeding point confirmed his fears. The Count wasn't present, and the only person who could ride or lead him without being bitten, kicked, or bucked off was Dutch. Unhitching Brandy in a panic and mounting her, Arthur spurred her to a gallop and rode away from camp under the dark of the night.

He rode for what felt like hours in panic, but was probably more like minutes with how hard he was spurring his poor horse. Brandy snorted in discontent and offered to buck him off a couple of times, and only then did he slow her to a canter. It was most likely unfounded, and Arthur knew it, but god, the dread that loomed over him was unshakable.

He was near O'Creagh's Run when he heard a familiar voice.

"Nobody else can know I come out here." A pause. "They think I'm crazy. I'm not. I swear, I'm not. You know I'm not, right?" Arthur pulled Brandy to a skidding stop- she again snorted at him and nipped at his back when he dismounted to show her displeasure with the rough treatment- and dismounted, following the voice to the lake. "I'm not crazy. I'm not."

Arthur took care to avoid snapping twigs or rustling the underbrush too much as he approached, peeping through the branches of young trees. Dutch sat on the shore of the lake, hands palms-up on his lap, staring at nothing and talking to no one. Nearby stood the Count, ever patient and loyal, but pawing at the rocky ground, anxious and bored. Dutch's fingers moved every now and then, like he was stroking his thumbs over something or squeezing something in his palms.

"I love you, you old fool. You know that's why I come here. I don't understand why you hang around here. We've got a nice place over the state line in Beaver Hollow." Arthur furrowed his brow as he processed what he was hearing, leaning closer. Dutch chuckled bitterly and whispered, "I take that back, actually. I know why you've been staying out here. You always have loved to fish."

Arthur barely held back a groan. Goddammit. Dutch's sanity had been failing him for a while, but this was a new low. Now began the tango between his conscience and his logical thought- should he let Dutch have his little fantasy if it made him feel better or pull him out of it before he fell too deep?- that he was growing used to. On the one hand, Dutch seemed to come out of these weird states of delusion temporarily more stable. On the other... Dutch thought he was talking to a dead man.

"Hosea, please come home." Dutch's voice was soft and breaking all of a sudden. "We miss you. We need you." A pause, a sniffle. "I need you. I... I know I don't say it enough, but I love you. I do. You know I do, right?"

The tension became thick enough to cut through when Arthur coughed, and he winced when he realized Dutch had heard him. He had been considering just letting it play out, but no! His stupid, failing body had to fail him yet again, and now Dutch was looking around like a startled stag.

He froze and Arthur saw him go tense. "Hosea, don't go." He reached for the air in front of him. "Don't go, please, I... just a little bit longer. Coulda just been someone passing by. Why do you always leave if you think someone's here? We ain't exactly a secret."

Arthur winced and rested his head against a nearby tree trunk. God, this was hard to watch. For a minute, he figured maybe he still had time to just leave and let Dutch have his little... moment.

"... Arthur? Arthur!"

Aaaaand he'd been spotted. Great. He sighed and stepped out of the branches. "Evenin', Dutch."

"How long have you been there? You coulda come out and said hello, you know. Hosea, look, even Arthur came looking for you. You still think you can't come back home?"

Arthur looked around nervously- maybe he was missing something and Dutch wasn't a madman rambling into the air- but nothing was amiss. "Dutch... no one's there."

"What're you talkin' about? Hosea's standin' right here." Dutch gestured at the air beside him. "C'mon, can't you see him?"

"... I really can't, Dutch." Arthur put a gentle hand on Dutch's shoulder. "Look, I... I know you miss him. I do too. But... you can't do this to yourself. You're just makin' it harder. He's gone. Hosea's gone, Dutch, we can't do anything about it." Arthur linked his arm through Dutch's to pull him towards the Count. "C'mon. Let's get back to camp. It's late."

"No, no, Arthur, I swear, I ain't crazy! He's here! I can see him! I can hear him, he's here-!"

"I'm sure you can, my friend, I'm sure you can." Arthur helped Dutch onto the Count's back. "Please. It's the middle of the night and God knows what kinda people are lurkin' around out here."

"But-"

"Dutch. Please." Arthur gave Dutch a pleading gaze. "No one's here, Dutch. Get back to camp."

Dutch looked like he wanted to protest, but didn't. Instead, he simply nodded a little, looked back out towards the water, and whispered "See you soon," before spurring the Count into a trot.

Arthur watched him go- made sure he was heading towards camp- and took a second to look out over the lake. Dutch might have been going insane, but he had a point. This was the kind of place Hosea would have loved. Crisp mountain air, fields of wildflowers, plenty of lake to fish in, game to hunt, and best of all, not many people. He would have thrived here.

"Well... if you're out there," Arthur began, whistling for Brandy, "we miss you. All of us. Dutch most of all, of course." He patted the mare on the neck as he climbed into the saddle. "He kept one of your handkerchiefs. He sleeps with it. If you're listenin', Hosea... give him some kinda sign at camp. Not out here. He needs it." He gently nudged Brandy's sides. He wasn't quite ready to leave yet. Talking to nothing was weirdly therapeutic. Maybe Dutch wasn't as crazy as he thought after all. "Take care of Lenny for me, would you? And... give Dutch a visit where I can see him."

As he pushed Brandy into a canter back toward camp, Arthur swore the breeze felt a little warmer than before, and it seemed to whisper to him.

_I will._


End file.
